In the pale breaths
we spared between
our lips,
the derivation
of our names
and the scales
we dared sing
into our instruments,
there was no candor,
no innocence,
only assumptions.
Very pretty assumptions:
how meat should be prepared,
wine fermented,
the material appropriate
for lifting toes
and concealing chests.
I always wanted to be pretty,

like a kitten or a doll,
or an enigmatic spangle
from a sandalwood candle.
I collected pretty things,
streams of aluminum pop-tops,
the laminated covers
to vinyl albums,
to embellish the four posts
of this bed.
The frame had been carved
so obviously by machine,
to resemble the Russian
towers and dungeons
in my background;
then painted white and blind.
It is supposedly the same bed
in which I was I conceived.

My parents gave it to me, 
before the detonation
of their cones and rods;
before they might have predicted
red tail lights whittling into the sky,
and witness their expectations
diminish in space, as has been
witnessed on earth and in heaven. 
They were just virtuous enough
to choose the right wood,
with the stamina to withstand
all their concessions.